Vengeance (22 page)

W
ith his baseball cap and hood pulled down over his face, Max followed the crowd of confused event goers looking for shelter into the Center's main entrance. People huddled around the floor-to-ceiling windows, exclaiming into their cell phones and comparing notes—
explosion, car bomb, arson
—and theories—
terrorism, anarchists, teenage prank gone horribly wrong.
Fake dinosaurs roared nearby. No one gave him a second look, because even if someone recognized him, what in the world would Maxwell Carressa be doing there? Thank God for confirmation bias.

Max scanned the signs above him, looking for directions to the space exhibit. He saw a hanging placard with a section whited out, possibly where the space exhibit used to be. Before he set off in that direction, his eyes landed on a different sign: “Puget Sound Model and Saltwater Tide Pool.” Puget Sound—that's where his vision wanted him to go…maybe. Without his books for confirmation, it was impossible to know for sure what the numbers tried to tell him. But Val had seen Puget Sound in her vision, too; unlikely to be a coincidence that the Pacific Science Center just happened to have a Puget Sound exhibit. Maybe that one led to the defunct space section. But if he was wrong and the exhibit led nowhere, he'd have wasted precious time that he could've spent saving Val's life…

He was overthinking it. He should trust the visions. Though he hated them, they'd never been wrong. Max took a breath, then weaved through the crowd toward the Puget Sound exhibit.

A rope with a “No Entry” sign in the center cut through the hallway from the main entrance, meant to section off the area for the event. After ensuring no one saw him, he ducked underneath the rope and hurried inside.

The clamor of the main entrance gave way to the soft gurgle of a water filtration system. A diorama of Puget Sound sprawled in the corner of a long, curved room with colorful information booths every couple feet. Cigarette smoke tinged the air.

No sign of Val.

He took two steps into the exhibit's main area, then froze when he heard a lone man's voice around the corner. With a hand on the gun wedged at the small of his back, he inched forward, not daring even to breathe to keep from alerting whoever lurked nearby. Slowly an artificial tide pool emerged from around the corner, a twenty-by-five-foot enclosure on a raised platform with algae-covered Plexiglas walls at waist height. Marine life lounged within the water; filtered air bubbled to its surface. At the edge of the pool, the back of a man's cheap brown suit came into view. He leaned against the pool's edge while he smoked a cigarette and talked on a cell phone.

“I'm here,” the man said into the phone. “This is stupid. We should just kill them.” He took a drag off his cigarette, then flicked the ashes into the tide pool as he exhaled. “Yeah, yeah. A man can dream, though.”

With a shiver, Max recognized the voice of the police officer who'd attacked him in the parking lot—Sten Ander. Though the exact details of what had happened were a blur, hot anger from what he
could
remember prickled across his skin. He pulled out his gun and snuck up behind Sten.

“Are you going to the victory party?” The cop paused while the person on the other end answered. “Just wear a wig. No one will recognize you…Well, I'm going, I don't care what Cassandra says. I'm sure she already knows exactly what I'm gonna do anyway.”

Max crept closer, gun pointed at Sten's back.

After another pause, Sten said, “All my pants are party pants, honey. I've got a pair of ass-less chaps I've been saving for just this occasion.” He took another puff, flicked ashes into the water, then laughed. “Yeah, well, I hate you, too, baby. May we both eat shit and die.” He hung up.

Max rammed the butt of his gun into the back of Sten's head. Sten dropped his phone and staggered forward. Before he could fall, Max grabbed him by his coat collar and shoved his head into the tide pool's water. Sten bucked and thrashed, sending up a storm with his arms.

“How does it feel to be ambushed and helpless, you sick fuck?” Max said through clenched teeth. He braced his forearm on Sten's neck and used his weight to hold the cop's head underwater. Max relished every second of Sten's panic.

If he killed Sten now, he'd be doing the world a favor.

The thought froze him. That's what he'd told himself after he snapped and killed his father—
I rid the world of a monster.
Would he keep succumbing to his anger and murdering people he deemed unworthy of life? How was he any better than them?

Mercy
, his vision had implored of him.
Show mercy.

Max began to ease off Sten's neck when he saw the cop grope for the sidearm strapped against his hip. He seized Sten's trigger finger and yanked it back until he felt it snap. A scream bubbled up from the water. Max took Sten's gun, jerked his head out of the pool, and threw him on the ground. The cop sputtered and gasped, clutching his mangled hand to his chest.

Sten coughed up water. “Oh,” he said. “You.”

Max shoved Sten's gun into the back of his pants while he pointed his own gun at the prone man. “Where's Val?”

“How should I know? You're the one with magical sex powers.”

Max flinched. Great—a psychopath in a position of authority knew one of his deepest secrets. Maybe he should've killed him after all.

“Get up,” Max said.

“Why?”

“We're going to find Val.”

Sten's eyes widened with fake concern. “But there's a crazy bomber on the loose.”

Max kicked Sten in the legs. “
Get up.
”

Sten took his time standing and winced when he touched his finger, cocked at an unnatural angle. “You sure you wanna be seen leading a cop around at gunpoint?”

“You're not a cop.”

“Funny, my badge says I am, though these days I feel more like Cupid.”

Max scoffed. “You're dirty as shit. I know you're one of Norman Barrister's lackeys and you murdered people on his command. Not to mention how you tried to beat me to death.” He shoved Sten toward the exit. “Move, asshole.”

Sten shuffled forward. “I'd ask how you plan to prove any of that,” he said over his shoulder, “but I already know you can't. I'll admit to a dirty mind, though. How was the fucking, by the way? I'm dying to know.”

Max's finger tensed against the trigger. “Shut up. Move faster.”

Sten didn't move any faster. “Did she go down on you? That's her specialty.”

“I said shut up.”

“Or do that thing where she lets out this sexy high-pitched wheeze—”

“
Shut the fuck up!”

Max threw his shoulder into Sten's back. Sten tumbled forward, and would have face-planted into the floor if he hadn't ran straight into Val as she rushed into the exhibit from the opposite direction.

For a couple seconds that felt like an eternity, the two struggled while Max could only watch in horrified silence. Despite his mangled finger, Sten easily gained the upper hand on Val as she reeled from his sudden appearance, her face and neck badly bruised while blood leaked out of wounds on her arm and leg. Sten twisted her wrist, and she grunted in pain as the gun she held—not his father's gun, Max noted with the cold detachment of someone watching a car wreck from the sidewalk—slipped out of her hand and into his. He clamped his arm around her neck and jerked her back flush to his chest. With his uninjured hand, he put the gun to her head.

He glanced at Max's Glock. “Drop it.”

Max didn't move. He left his gun trained on Sten, Val his human shield, as his mind worked furiously to come up with any other option. Val tried to speak, but either the chokehold of Sten's arm or the damage done to her neck kept her words from coming out.

“
Drop it
, pretty boy. She won't be so hot with a bullet in her brain.”

Val shook her head. Her wide eyes pleaded with him to not give in. Max still didn't move. His body had gone numb. He should have killed Sten when he had the chance.
Goddamn
mercy. Why?
Maybe Max could shoot Sten in the head, but he wasn't a good shot, and he couldn't risk hitting Val. He loved her. He couldn't—

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” Sten sighed and rolled his eyes. His finger tightened on the trigger, resigned to fire. “Fine—”

“
No!
” Max dropped his gun. “There. Let her go. Please let her go. Arrest me. Kill me. Do whatever you want with me. Just let her go.”

Tears filled Val's eyes. Sten laughed.

“Oh, you two!” Sten said. “You make me wanna buy the world a Coke.” He looked at Val, leaned his head into hers as if he was smelling her hair. She cringed as his lips touched her ear. “Don't say I never did anything for ya,” he said, then turned the gun on Max.

The bang of a gunshot echoed through the exhibit. A shriek finally clawed its way out of Val's chest. For a moment Max thought Sten had shot the wall behind him. Then he felt a strange pinching sensation in his gut. He looked down, and saw blood. His own blood. He put a hand on the red stain that blossomed at the base of his sweatshirt. Warm liquid flowed through his fingers. Strange, it didn't hurt.

The world tilted on its side, and Max fell to his knees. Sten shoved Val away, then disappeared as she ran to Max. He reached for her as the ceiling slewed toward the floor. Then his head was in her arms, and he was looking up at her as his body went slack. Val's tears rained onto his cheeks, her wet eyes the color of storm clouds on a clear summer day, rolling in from nowhere to stop a couple blissful hikers in their tracks and make them stare.

“Don't move,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “I think—I know help is coming. It's coming, Max…
Max
—”

Her words trailed off as Max's eyes closed against his will. Damn, he was going to die—when finally, for the first time in his life, he wanted to live.

V
al stared dully at the mud-colored liquid in a Styrofoam cup a police officer had placed in front of her—instant coffee with a dash of instant creamer, which tasted instantly like turpentine. She sat alone in an interrogation room, shoulders slumped, hands in her lap, waiting for her lawyer. She picked at the bandage around her sprained wrist and tried to be happy she was still alive.

After she'd been arrested at the Pacific Science Center and Max had been rushed to the hospital, they'd carted her down to the police station and tried to wring her through the third degree before she lawyered up. For once, Sten was nowhere to be found, though she didn't trust anyone in the Seattle PD—any of them could be his accomplice. She'd told her court-appointed counselor everything—everything that didn't make her sound insane anyway, which meant leaving out the visions-of-the-future parts—and then he'd told her to sit tight while he corroborated her story.

She'd spent a restless night in jail, fully expecting to get shivved in the back, startled when she opened her eyes to rising sunlight and her still-beating heart. Now she sat and waited, exhaustion from her ordeal continuing to weigh her down, still expecting a cop to burst through the door and plug her full of lead at any moment.

She jumped when she heard the click of the doorknob, then relaxed a little when her lawyer, Joshua Samson, slipped into the room. The middle-aged man gave her a large smile as he entered, the top of his bald head glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“Good morning, Ms. Shepherd,” he said with pep as he took the seat across from her. “How are you—”

“How's Max?” she asked, her voice still hoarse from the previous day's choking.

“Still in the hospital. I can't get any more information than that, I'm sorry. HIPAA and all.”

At least he wasn't dead. It would be all over the news by now if he'd died.
Please, God, don't let him be dead.

“I do have some good news for you, though.” Joshua smiled again.

She leaned toward him. “You searched Norman Barrister's financial records and found evidence he was using stolen money from an account in Dean Price's name to fund his campaign?”

“Well…no.”

Val sighed and fell back in her chair. “Of course not.”

“The cops got a confession out of the accountant,” her lawyer said. “He confirms that Dean Price was siphoning money from Carressa Industries into an offshore account. Apparently the other man killed at the scene was helping him—Giovanni Dinapoli was his name. Career criminal with a lengthy record for money laundering, racketeering, identity theft, forgery, sexual assault, and a few other violent crimes to spice things up.”

“That's the man Barrister killed,” Val said, “probably to cover his tracks, and blame it on me after he killed me. Or maybe Barrister planned to kill me and blame it on Dinapoli, then claim he killed Dinapoli in self-defense.” The Italian must have been the one giving Barrister information about the future, the one like Max and Val. He had to be. No one else made sense.

Joshua looked away. “Huh.”

Val narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean, ‘huh'?”

“Well…the initial forensics report from the scene contradicts your version of events.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like how?”

“You say you shot Mr. Barrister, but ballistics reports it was Mr. Dinapoli's gun that killed him, and also shot Mr. Carressa. And it was your gun that killed Mr. Dinapoli.”

“
What?
How is that—that's not even possible. Max had my gun.”

He shrugged. “I'm telling you what they told me. They also say the car that exploded outside the Center was registered to Mr. Dinapoli.”

Val shook her head, speechless. Either the forensics reports were falsified or the scene was altered to match a narrative she didn't understand yet. Why would the cops spend weeks trying to capture or kill her, just to let her off the hook now?

“I also talked to the Barristers' lawyers,” he said. “I can't tell you exactly what they said, but I can tell you that they have information that's consistent with the police report.” Joshua leaned toward her and talked softly. “What I'm saying is—your version of events is significantly different than everyone else's. So, as your lawyer, I'm suggesting that it's in your best interests to stay quiet about your accusations against Norman Barrister.”

She scoffed. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Nobody will believe you, Ms. Shepherd. I'm being totally honest here. Maybe when Mr. Carressa gives his statement if—
when
he recovers, but right now it's your word against everybody else's. People will think you're nuts. You won't come out of this on top.”

“But Delilah Barrister asked me to help her. She said she had evidence of Norman's dirty dealings. He was abusive and cheating on her, and she wanted out. What did she say?”

Joshua pressed his lips together and frowned like it pained him to speak. “She wouldn't corroborate your story.”

Val grit her teeth. So now that Val had solved Delilah's problem with a bullet to her husband's head, she'd re-erected the perfect housewife façade. Which meant Val could kiss whatever evidence Norman's wife might've had to incriminate Norman goodbye.

“
Goddammit.
” Val slammed her fist on the table, and Joshua jumped. “What about Robby, huh? Barrister killed Robby, or this Dinapoli guy did it for him. How are we going to prove that without connecting Chet to Barrister?”

Joshua shook his head. “I guess you can't.”

She stared into the dark depths of her coffee as tears filled her eyes. “Then this was all for nothing,” she muttered.

He put a hand on her forearm. “I'm sorry, Ms. Shepherd. I do have more good news, though.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“The coroner ruled Dean Price's death a suicide, so neither you nor Mr. Carressa will face charges concerning that.”

She shrugged. “At least
one
piece of evidence wasn't tampered with.”

“Also, given the fact that Mr. Price conspired to steal money from his client's company, the case against Mr. Carressa is now impossibly tainted. Once he's healthy enough to retain another lawyer, it'll be a slam-dunk to get the charges against him dropped. And the DA knows it. So”—he slapped his palms on the tabletop—“he's not going to press charges against you, either. There's no point if they're almost certain to be dropped. That means you're free to go.”

Her mouth fell open. “I can walk out of here right now?”

“Yep.” He gave her a triumphant smile. “The Pacific Science Center might bring charges for trespassing, and maybe criminal mischief and evading police, but given the extraordinary circumstances and media attention, I doubt it'll go anywhere. In any case, they're all misdemeanors.”

She looked at her lawyer, waiting for him to break into a “Just kidding!” sadistic laugh like Sten would have done. It made no sense. After everything that happened, and everything she knew, they were just going to let her go? Why?
Why
—God, she was so sick of that question. At this rate she'd never know.

Val stood up, limping a little on her injured leg, walked to the interrogation room door, and opened it. Some cops strode by and glanced at her like she was a celebrity in an airport, but no one stopped her. She looked at her lawyer.

“Do I owe you anything?” she asked him.

“A ‘thank you' would be nice, but I'm used to being unappreciated,” he said with a wink. “Mind the reporters. They're swarming outside.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I could use a ride to the hospital, if you want some free advertising.”

Val hustled past the flock of reporters camped out in front of the Harborview Medical Center, who swooped in with microphones as soon as they recognized her. Tempting as it was to scream the truth about Norman Barrister while she had everyone's full attention, her lawyer was right—no one would believe her without Max or Delilah to back her up. She needed to touch base with him before she went on the record about anything. If he was all right. If he was awake. Her stomach lurched at the possibility that he wouldn't wake up, that maybe the vision she'd seen of him dying in a hospital bed wasn't due to Sten's beating, but the gunshot wound. She buried the thought as she hurried through the hospital's sliding doors, the clicking of cameras receding behind her.

She tracked Max to the intensive care unit on the second floor. Tired people filled half the waiting room, slouched in stiff-looking chairs. The few that looked up did a double take when they saw her, their eyes cutting back and forth between her and the television that droned in the corner showing news footage of her running into the hospital. She tried to ignore them as she walked to the check-in window.

“I'm looking for Maxwell Carressa,” she said to the receptionist on the other side of the thick window. The hint of fear that permeated her voice surprised her. She sounded desperate, and she couldn't filter it out. “I heard he was here.”

Recognition flashed across the receptionist's face when she looked up at Val. “That's correct,” she said.

“Can I see him?”

The receptionist hesitated, knowing full well who Val was and her connection to Max. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” she said softly. “Only primary support caregivers and family members are allowed inside.”

“But…he has no family.” In truth, Robby's sister, Josephine, was Max's next of kin, though nobody but Max and Val knew that yet.

“I'm his family,” a man said behind her.

She turned to face an older gentleman, his craggy face warm and genial despite the expensive business suit he wore.

“I'm the closest thing he's got anyway, as his emergency contact.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Valentine Shepherd?”

She nodded.

“Michael Beauford, CFO of Carressa Industries.” He held out his hand.

She hesitated a moment before shaking it. It was hard to trust anyone anymore.

“I've worked closely with Max for almost a decade. He's a good kid, most of the time.”

“Isn't he technically your
boss
?”

Michael laughed. “Not anymore. He was voted off the board after he became Seattle's Most Wanted. Now he's just a regular millionaire schmuck. So, you're his…what? Girlfriend?”

Val opened her mouth, then closed it when she realized she didn't know how to answer. She wasn't really his girlfriend. They hadn't known each other long at all—a blink in time compared to her relationship with Robby. She barely knew Max…That wasn't true. She knew practically everything about him, and he about her. They'd certainly seen, felt, and tasted every part of each other. But what did any of that mean? She cared about Max, maybe more than cared—fleeting feelings that might fade now that the pressure that forced them together had lifted. And what did he feel for her? They'd had sex—great sex, many times—only because they had to, because that's the way their power worked. By itself, it meant nothing.

“I'm not his girlfriend,” she finally said. “He hired me to look into his father's death, to prove his innocence. In the process, I stumbled across a plot to steal his money. They tried to kill us, so we ran. I guess…we're friends now.”

Michael lifted his eyebrows like he could smell her bullshit. “Okay…”

“How is he?” Desperation tingeing her voice again despite her attempt to keep it out.

“He had a piece of his large intestine removed,” Michael said.

Oh God. A lump grew in her throat.

“He's recovering from the surgery now. Saw him about an hour ago. He's still real groggy, kept falling asleep while I was talking to him, but the doctors say he'll make a full recovery.”

Val realized she'd been holding her breath. She exhaled as a smile grew on her lips.

“The cops have been waiting around for a chance to question him.” He cocked his head toward a couple of plainclothes men Val hadn't pegged as police when she'd entered. Now she noticed their intense glances in her direction as dead giveaways. “Until Max can talk for more than two minutes without passing out, I told them to go to hell.”

Val grinned at that. “He needs another lawyer. Can you get that for him?”

“Already done. The cavalry is on its way.”

She bit her lip. “Can I see him?”

Michael nodded. “I'll take you inside. He might still be out of it, I'll warn you now.”

At the receptionist's desk, he got her a wristband that allowed her entry into the ICU area. Val followed him through sterile white corridors until he reached a nondescript room. He rapped on the door, waited a beat, then opened it.

“Max?” Michael poked his head in. “You're not getting your colostomy bag cleaned right now, are you?”

When there was no answer, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Val followed close behind. They walked into a room with yellow walls, the morning sun bathing everything in a warm glow through white window curtains. In an adjustable bed flanked by beeping equipment, Max lay in a blue hospital gown with his head turned toward the window. An IV snaked out of his arm and into a drip bag at his side.

“Max?” Michael said.

Slowly Max turned his head to look at them. Seeing him move sent an irrational thrill through her—proof that the entire hospital hadn't conspired to lie to her, like that was possible now.

“Your friend is here,” Michael said, stepping aside to reveal Val.

Max looked at her blankly, then smiled when his brain caught up with his eyes. “Hi,” he said to her in a weak voice.

She smiled back. “Hi.”

After a few seconds of silence where Max and Val stared at each other, Michael cleared his throat. “Okay, well, I'm going to wait outside while you two talk ‘business,' as ‘friends.'” He waved once and left, shutting the door behind him.